Kicking Your Ass (Is My Delight)
by randomnickname
Summary: "Just because every sheep on this planet listens to the same crap, doesn't mean Death Scythe ain't lame and Justin Law ain't an overrated pansy." When Arachnophobia's drummer Giriko makes a dismissive comment in an interview, teen heartthrob Justin Law instigates an internet feud. Rock Band AU
1. Chapter 1

"And now an exclusive interview with Arachnophobia - the infamous prog rock band is back with a new killer album, and I can't wait to hear what they have to say ..."

Justin wipes sweat from his brow and looks over to the fitness room's TV screen. He doesn't usually bother with MTV's shitty band interviews, but it's been a while since anyone has heard from Arachnophobia, and even if their music isn't his style Justin has to concede the new line-up sounds promising. The singer is still the same, of course (Arachne won't ever let the band escape her claws); but they got a new guitarist, a weirdo whose name has been on quite a few lips in the indie scene, and the drummer is admittedly really decent. He's been on the news on his own, too - apparently the guy has quite a temper, and got into enough drunken brawls to pique the tabloid's interest.

Justin leans back in the seat of the rower and grabs his water bottle while the young interviewer excitedly babbles on the screen. The band members, lounged on a big couch, appear much more put together. Arachne displays a soft, condescending smile as she waits for her turn to talk - Justin guesses she has already been doing this whole self-promotion ordeal before the interviewer was out of his diapers. She still wears the same kind of revealing goth dresses as back in the first days of Arachnophobia, but with her regal attitude it doesn't look cheap on her - she has aged well, Justin thinks. Same thing can't be said of Mosquito, the contrabass player, who has shrunk and shriveled like an old prune. And what's with the mustache?

Justin watches, amused, as the interviewer tries to coax answers out of the guitarist, Asura. The guy, his upper body wrapped in thick scarves like this is Alaska and not L.A., only nods or shakes his head in answer, rarely bothering with monosyllables. In the scene he has a rep of being an absolutely insane musician, with a thing for shrill, nervous riffs - Justin has heard special footage through an acquaintance once and Asura does live up to the legend, even if the dissonant melodies sent shivers of displeasure up Justin's spine.

Arachne repeatedly takes back the reigns of the conversation, with smooth, PR-proof talk about the band's unique trajectory and the quality and daring of the new album. As if - the title, _Madness strikes back_, sounds like an _Alice in Wonderland_ rip-off, and Justin doubts the rest of the album proves much more original. But then he's been biased against Arachne's sultry voice from the start. He'll still listen in when the CD arrives in their mailbox - one benefit of being lead singer of America's most popular band is the ton of free merchandise every label sends to them on a regular basis. They have one room in the basement of the band house that is solely dedicated to stashing the never ceasing flow of CDs, t-shirts and other goodies.

He's about to start rowing again when the interviewer asks if Arachnophobia intends to join the annual _Greatest Rock Band_ contest.

"We already know the competition will be particularly intense this year, with astonishing bands like Death Scythe on board!" the interviewer adds, and Justin perks up at the mention of his band.

The drummer, who had been beating a haphazard rhythm on his thigh with a bored expression, loudly snorts. The interviewer latches on it:

"Giriko, do you think Arachnophobia would have a chance against Death Scythe and their dedicated fan base?"

Giriko shoots a cautious look at Arachne, as if he's asking for her permission to speak, but her expression stays one of blank, polite interest. The drummer seems to take this as his clue to go, because he props his boots up on the table and leans back in the couch, a smirk on his face.

"Death Scythe ain't worth jackshit," he states. Justin doesn't think he's ever heard the man talk before - he has a rough, hoarse voice, with only a hint of foreign accent. Czech, if Justin's memory is correct.

"Their music is fucking boring, they sound like they're puking out a mix of every mainstream shit that's ever been aired," Giriko continues. "Only reason they're famous is teenage girls wetting themselves over their baby-faced singer. We'd _destroy_ them." He folds his muscular arms behind his neck, seemingly satisfied with his rant.

"But they have earned the "Album of the Year" title three years in a row," the interviewer argues.

"Only proves the public has shitty taste," Giriko retorts. "Just 'cause every sheep on this planet listens to the same crap, doesn't mean Death Scythe ain't lame and Justin Law ain't an overrated pansy."

"Giriko," Arachne says, a slight note of warning in her smooth voice.

"What? Just sayin'," the drummer mutters, but his confident smirk falters and he falls silent for the rest of the interview. Justin has to smile at the stubborn line in Giriko's shoulders while Arachne explains that no, a participation in the contest isn't on the band's agenda. He doesn't feel offended by the insults in the slightest - he's heard them all before, and the grumpy delivery is somewhat endearing. Still, there's something about Giriko's disdain that rears something in Justin, a familiar urge to tease, annoy, provoke, so after he's done with his rowing session, Justin retrieves his phone and opens Twitter:

_hey ** arachnophobia-official** ! baby face here says no way in hell you could beat us at ** GRB-contest** . Come and participate - no rule against sad has-beens yet! XOXO, the overrated pansy_

_\- Justin Law ( ** justin_law** )_

The band is having their break, which means Arachne and Mosquito are reviewing videos of the practice session, Asura is strumming on his unplugged guitar in a corner, and Giriko is bored out of his mind.

He thinks about going for a walk, but there are no sidewalks in this shitty hell-hole of a city, and at least the studio is climatized. They've still got two hours of practice to go, so he can't even pop open a cold one without Arachne frowning at him, and after everything she's done for him he kind of owes her to be sober a few hours a day. So, it sucks.

When he joined the band he didn't think they'd spend so much time in quiet sondproof rooms recording music. He's in for the gigs, always has been, and his youth in the garage punk scene has skewed his perception of how album studios are recorded. He recalls it to be a fun, short process, with lots of cheap liquor and makeshift electronics involved. But of course, his current band's music is on an entire different level of production quality, and perfectionist extraordinaire Arachne is never pleased until the songs are flawless. Which mean they have to play them over and over and over again.

But Mosquito doesn't complain, Asura doesn't complain, so Giriko shuts up and does what he's told, and impatiently awaits their next tour when he can finally be back on stage.

He's drumming on his knee, daydreaming about roaring crowds and the ecstatic thrill of a good performance, better than any fuck, when Arachne softly beckons him over. She has her phone in hand.

"Giriko, remember when I told you to keep your temper in check during interviews?" she says, and the drummer slightly ducks his head at the reprimand in her voice. "This is why."

She holds up her phone for him to see - it's the band's twitter. There usually isn't much activity on their social media, despite the launch of their latest album; but now it is flooded, messages from fans cheering them on for the Greatest Rock Band contest, but mostly from other users insulting them, and Giriko in particular. He looks up questioningly.

"The interview with MTV yesterday," Arachne coolly explains. "Death Scythe's singer responded to your insult on twitter and openly challenged us. Their fan base is giving us hell for it, and _our_ fan base is now convinced we'll participate in the rock contest, a misconception I've yet to dispel."

"You rascal couldn't hold your tongue, could you?" Mosquito sneers, mustache quivering in anger.

"Shut up, gramps," Giriko retorts automatically. He scrolls up to read the tweet that started it all, and frowns, irritated. _Has-beens?_ The little icon of Justin Law seems to smile at him, sardonic.

"What a petty bastard," he mutters. He starts to type a response, but Arachne snatches the phone away before he can hit "tweet".

"_No_," she scolds. "If you want to ridicule yourself online, then _please_ use an own account. And use your own damn phone."

Giriko grimaces, and she gives him a warning glance. "Don't tell me you wrecked it again."

"Dunno. I lost it, I guess," he shrugs, defensive. "So what, 'ts not like I need it."

She shakes her head. "You're a desperate case," she sighs, and lowers her voice, muttering to herself. "Now how do we get this right again? I don't want to make it sound like we're scared to take part in the contest ..."

Giriko frowns. For some reason, Justin Law's taunt bugs him, more than it should, and he find himself saying, "You know, sis, we _could_ participate."

They'd slay, too. Death Scythe would never see it coming.

"But we won't, " she answers, tone sharp. "The tour is all planned out, we are not going to enter a pseudo reality-TV contest just to prove a point."

"It's just three days to make place for," the drummer protests. "Three gigs! On the west coast, even!"

"_No_, Giriko. Don't make me repeat myself."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, and refrains the urge to pout, mood souring. Sure, it's not that big of a deal, but ... it's not that often he has the opportunity to rock a big stage on live TV, and wiping the floor with a mainstream band he despises would be a great bonus. He briefly wonders what face Death Scythe's singer would pull at Arachnophobia's triumph. His teenage fan base would probably weep monstrous tears.

He indulges in the fantasy for a minute, and decides to get himself a new phone.


	2. Chapter 2

It's Sunday. The band is having its weekly pancake day, an instance to gather around the same table and discuss important matters while everyone is mollified by a collective sugar-high.

Justin is munching on pancakes drenched in maple-syrup, vaguely listening to the conversation as he checks his Instagram. Their underwater photo shoot is a full success, the hashtag _#WetLaw_ is trending, and he amuses himself by reading some of the raunchiest comments. The lack of restraints of some users is baffling, even if he's grown used to the odd mixture of hysteria and crudeness by now - he's had enough exposure, after all. It's one of the side effects of his "good boy" stage persona: while one half of his fans seems willing to die in protection of his supposed virtue, the other half loudly proclaims its desire to see him defiled. Of course, the war between the two fractions rages eternal. Justin is careful not to pick sides.

"Justin, what do you think of _Sound of your Soul_ as an opener for the GRB?"

He glances up - Azusa, their lead guitarist and unofficial manager, is waiting for an answer.

"Sure, why not, that's always a crowd pleaser," he shrugs, already back to his social media feed.

"What incredible enthusiasm," Stein, the bassist, drawls from behind his coffee cup. The mixture is black as tar, and Justin is pretty sure Stein has slipped some of his magic pills in it, but he sounds rather sane still.

Drummer Marie smiles cheekily. "He'd be more enthusiastic if Arachnophobia was participating."

"Please tell me you're not roasting them online again," Azusa says with a suspicious look towards Justin's phone.

Justin puts on an offended face. "Oh my god Azusa, that was like, two memes!" And a bad photoedit. And a few snide comments in interviews here and there. Not that Arachnophobia has deigned to acknowledge it yet.

"Still," Azusa grumps. "We have enough bad publicity with Spirit's divorce already, no need to add our lead singer trolling an innocent indie band to the list."

Spirit ceases to push food around his plate to shoot them a sad look, his expression doleful. He hasn't obtained the guard of his precious daughter, and has been a picture of sniveling morosity since.

"I didn't start it," Justin mumbles, and stuffs his mouth full of pancake to put an end to the conversation.

The other exchange a knowing look.

"You know, there are other ways to get someone's attention than to antagonize them," Marie suggests gently.

"Dunno what you meanf."

Azusa eyes him sharply. "Because you're obviously not interested in that drummer _at all_."

"It's quite blatant," Stein confirms, dispassionate.

"I think I've seen some fanart cross my dash already," Marie adds.

Spirit looks up at that, eyes widened in horror. "Marie, please please please please don't send me links again, I still haven't recovered from last time -"

"I didn't think it'd be that much of a trauma, considering some of it was pretty accurate," Marie retorts with a side look at Stein, who merely smiles.

"Fan theories aside," Azusa says, always one to get back on track. "Justin, if you're interested in that guy, - which you shouldn't be, by the way, because he seems a first-rate asshole - just ask him out."

Justin threateningly wags his fork. "First of all, stop ganging up on me, you bunch of sadists. Second of all, I'm _not_ interested in him. He's not my type."

There's a collective round of sniggers he tries his best to ignore. What do they know of his love life? He just wants to get back at Giriko because of his nasty comment, seriously!

Marie glances at her phone, and lights up like a Christmas tree. "Then I guess you don't want to see that amateur video of him from yesterday evening," she grins.

"..."

"..."

"... Marie?"

"Yes?"

"Send me the link."

The quality of the video is dreadful - it's been filmed with a hand-held phone, and there's an awful lot of footage of shoes. But when the camera zooms in it's unmistakably Giriko on the other side of the street, wearing a garish Hawaiian shirt and chatting up some scantily clad, purple-haired beauty.

The camera turns to the left, to a blonde teen with an almost maniacal glint in her eye. It's a familiar look, and Justin identifies her as a crazy fan-girl, type A (defender of virtue). Now this promises to be fun.

"Are you filming this, Meme?" the girl asks the cameraman. "It's him! We _have_ to make him apologize!"

"But, Anya..." - an Asian teen with pigtails appears in the frame, hands brought up to her mouth - "We can't just walk over there and talk to him!"

"No?" Anya retorts with a haughty sniff. "Watch me!" And she crosses the street with an imperious stride.

"Come on, Tsugumi, don't be a chicken!" the cameraman, Meme, tells the worried teen, and hurries after Anya.

They hoover behind Giriko, until he shoots them an irate look over his shoulder.

"You're Giriko, from Arachnophobia!" Anya then declares, pointing at him for emphasis.

"Yeah, so?" He's lounging against the wall, a bottle loosely dangling between two fingers, like a neon "flirt" sign aimed at the pretty woman he's talking with. Justin instantly decides he dislikes her.

Anya braces herself, mouth thinned to a stubborn line, then starts bellowing in a pedantic tone. "You've insulted Justin Law! As his biggest fans, wedemand you offer him your most sincere apologies!" She even stomps her foot. Behind her there's a few nervous sounds of support.

"Woah woah woah," Giriko says, holding up a hand. "Hold on a second, Missy. I owe no fuckin' apology to that dickhead, alright? And certainly not to a bunch of twelve-years old playing world cops. So do kindly fuck off, darling." He makes a shooing gesture, then turns back to his interlocutor with an amused huff.

"We're fourteen," Meme quietly corrects, and then Tsugumi starts positively _wailing_.

"Justin Law is not a dickhead!" she cries, hands balled to tight fists. "He's the nicest, cutest, kindest man on earth! And you're just jealous because he's much more handsome and more popular than you!"

"Yeah! And you're just afraid to lose against Death Scythes at the Rock Band Contest!" Anya adds, vindictive.

That gets Giriko's full attention. He draws himself up to his entire, rather considerable, height and glowers down at the group of teens, who shriek in unison. Meme almost drops the phone. Even with the shitty recording quality, he's oozing such threat that Justin swallows, and feels something hot curl in his belly.

"Listen up you little idiots," Giriko lowly growls, "I ain't afraid of _no one_. And if that Justin guy has enough balls he would come talk to me like a man instead of hiding behind that social media bullshit. I'll see him on stage at the contest and I'm gonna kick his scrawny ass to -"

A lithe hand appears on his biceps and he stops ranting to shoot it a surprised look.

"Don't be so mean to those poor little girls," the purple-haired woman chirps. "You can't blame them for liking Justin Law." She leans forward towards the teens with a conspiratorial air. "He is a real cutie-pie, isn't he?"

The girls beam up at this unexpected ally, and start eagerly chattering.

"He's so handsome -"

"The cutest -"

"His hair -"

"His eyes -"

"Like that concert in Manchester where he kissed that one girl and -"

Giriko's face in the background settles to exasperated disbelief - Justin refrains a chuckle. The woman is smiling patiently at the excited girls, indulging their blabbering, but then she points at Giriko with her thumb, a mischievous, cat-like smile adorning her features.

"Don't you think the two of them would make a delicious couple?" she suggests.

"What?!" the girls exclaim in horror.

"_What?!_ " Giriko sputters with a look of absolute outrage. "What the fuck, Blair?!"

She tips her lip with a purple-nailed index, her eyes gleaming. Ah, Justin recognizes - a type B fan (defiler). "Can't you see?" she grins. "The hunky bad boy and the media sweetheart. The underdog and the rock star. Trust me, I can spot that kind of things - these two are made for each other!"

There's a bet of silence. Then -

"_Absolutely not!_" Anya cries.

"Justin deserves better than that!" Tsugumi wails anew. "He's the nicest, cutest, kindest man on earth and -"

Giriko brusquely tears himself away from the wall. "Fuckin' hell, I'm out of here," he mutters, and stomps away, shaking his head. By a lucky chance, the camera frames his retreating rear in a very appealing way, and Justin smiles at his screen.

The video goes on for a moment, the teens arguing with Blair about who Justin's soul mate might be, but Justin isn't paying attention anymore.

_I'll see him on stage at the contest,_ Giriko said. Now that has the sound of promise to it.

He can't wait for the GRB to be there already.


End file.
